


praying on newborn skies

by maisiedaisies



Series: only light drives out the darkness [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Eating Disorders, Healing, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, will add tags as i go(:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:04:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maisiedaisies/pseuds/maisiedaisies
Summary: And while Dean's previous hopes are no doubt unattainable, these are definitely not. It shouldn't be too hard to top his fourth year at Hogwarts. Hopefully, that's exactly what will happen





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heres the beginnig of the sequel to dying heart falling apart!! ill undoubtedly be making edits to this first chapter and the summary, but as i dont have a beta or a lot of time on my hands, its a work in progress right now
> 
> lemme just say i did not mean to discard this work for almost a year. and this writing is not my best at all. but i figured i owed it to whoevers still reading(:

Harry watches the sun rise for the fifteenth time in a row.

  
Nightmares have, to his intense dislike, become the culprit of his insomnia yet again. While some nights he’s tried to grasp an hour or two of sleep in between dreams, mostly he opts to skip the cold sweat and phantom pains and just stays awake. For hours on end.

  
The Dursleys’ frustration with him is gradually accumulating, even more so this summer than in the past. With his lethargy becoming increasingly prominent every day, they’ve abandoned the pretense of ignoring him much earlier this time. Not even the threat of magic or Sirius Black’s vengeance can prevent Vernon growling at his nephew across the table and seizing his wrist with a crushing grip when he wants attention. More than once Harry’s dozed off and found his uncle’s beet red face inches from his own, hissing at him to pay attention.

  
They haven’t discovered the root of his strange behavior. Dudley’s old clothes are extremely large on him still, even more so with all his absent weight that’s melted off throughout this last school term. This inconvenience has become convenient for hiding the glaring evidence of his self-harm and his weight loss. Harry shoved the T-shirts to the back of his dresser drawers when he arrived and instead wears long-sleeves, ignoring the humid heat of summer. He feels like a child dressing up in his father’s clothes, but there’s not much that can be done about it unless he wants to be gawked at like a freak.

  
Dudley’s been fixated on his tossed eyeglasses for quite some time now, probably disappointed that he can’t break them like he used to. When Harry finally explained that he had a lens correcting charm performed on him, none of his relatives understood and they got even more angry at the allusion to magic. His uncle had slapped him for throwing away expensive glasses, and proceeded to lock him in his room upstairs. Since then, he’s been essentially tucked away in there, only coming down for meals. Though he was forced to forgo even that when his appetite proved to be nonexistent and it began causing problems.

  
Because if Harry thought that the Dursleys got mad when he asked for more food, he was in for a treat. Petunia had taken the lack of acceptance as an insult to her cooking, growing upset and sending huffy looks at her husband, who in turn yelled himself hoarse at Harry to compensate.

  
“I will _not_ have ungrateful boys in my kitchen,” He’d shouted, growing more and more irrational at the sight of Harry’s apathy, “Your aunt worked hard for this meal, and you _will_ eat it.”

  
Harry didn’t dare say that he wasn’t hungry. Instead he chose to force a few bites of food in every meal, enough that they all stopped breathing down his neck, and went back up to his room afterwards. Whether out of spite or out of desire to please his wife, his uncle quickly stopped calling him down for meals, and Harry stopped eating them. The nightmares of him being tortured and cut open were enough to bury his appetite six feet under.

  
The Dursleys are most likely satisfied to have Harry locked away so they can continue the illusion of being a normal nuclear family. He can hear them downstairs during all hours of the day, eating and watching telly together, without a sign of disturbance or tension.

  
Hedwig was Harry’s only link to the outside world, and at the start of summer he used her almost all the time to write letters. Gradually, she became exhausted with the constant travel, and so he began requesting that Sirius, Dean, and Ron use their owls instead for correspondence. The letters are his only entertainment, his only distraction from the nightmares and the darkening thoughts in his head.

  
Dean is a horrible writer, he’s learned, focusing on the most trivial details and leaving bigger pictures out. When Harry asked him how his summer was going, he’d sent a mess of a letter in response. It was obvious that there was effort put into it, but between the hasty handwriting and the unimportant subjects, the letter was and still is difficult to read.

  
Dean is his main correspondent at the moment, and so it’s a bit frustrating, to say the least. He doesn’t care about shopping in Diagon Alley or Krum signing onto a new team, he misses Dean and wants to know how his boyfriend’s doing. It’s almost impossible to read through the messy, boyish scrawl without getting a bit agitated.

  
Ron sends him very brief letters, talking about his family and how they miss him. He even mentions that there are plans in place for him to come over for a portion of the summer, which Harry has mixed feelings about whenever he thinks of it. However, given the cracks that are still present in their friendship, they don’t send each other nearly as much letters as they used to. With Hermione not even owning an owl of her own, and going on vacation for the first part of the summer, that leaves Sirius.

  
His godfather, unfortunately, sends him short letters as well, almost impossible to make sense of in case the letter was intercepted at some point.

  
_Harry,_  
I hope this letter finds you well. A different arrangement for you is being discussed with the Order. I’ll see you soon.  
Snuffles

  
Harry didn’t even know what to make of it. The “Order” sounded like an organization, and he felt as though he’d heard the name before, but where? He spent one afternoon searching through his history textbooks for a resemblance to the title, but came up short.

  
He’s now even more bored out of his mind than usual, with a horrific absence of detailed letters to give him a semblance of company. Mostly, he spends his time in isolation trying to chip away at his summer assignments and failing miserably at concentrating. Whenever his motivation or focus runs out, he ends up lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, ignoring the sharp pangs in his stomach.

  
On the sixteenth night, Harry tells himself he’s going to sleep, and tries his best to follow through. He puts on pajamas, and crawls into bed, a bruise from Uncle Vernon on his arm making him wince before he turns over.

  
He’s been lying there for about twenty minutes, staring resolutely out at the stars, when Hedwig flies straight into the window.

 

* * *

  
  
Harry’s summoned to breakfast that morning, after an exhausting night of panicking over his owl’s injured wing. It seems as though she was hurt on her journey home; there’s a brief letter on her leg from Ron complaining about Fred and George. Instead of sitting on the windowsill and hooting until she was admitted into his room like usual, she’d collapsed against the glass. He’d been stricken with panic and fear, had rushed to his window and picked her up gently, taking her to her cage and trying in vain to figure out what he could possibly do. Whenever he had moved her wing, she pecked at him sharply or made a distraught noise.

  
It quickly became clear that he would be unable to assist her. He couldn’t perform any magic, not if he didn’t want to get expelled, and even if he could it wasn’t as though he knew any spells for healing animals. He’d worried over her for a good hour, going over all the possibilities that led to her injury, wringing himself dry with nerves that wouldn’t go away. Eventually, she fell asleep, undoubtedly tired from her ordeal, and he resigned himself to the fact that he would simply have to wait until help arrived. Whether that would be in a few days or a few weeks, he didn’t know. He just prayed that it was soon.

  
Needless to say, he isn’t in a good mood when Uncle Vernon raps on his door and tells him to come downstairs for breakfast. It’s the first time in more than a week that he’s been asked to make his presence known at the table. Harry switches his pajamas for suitable attire (changing into them was a waste of his time anyways), and trudges down the stairs, making sure his door’s closed and secure. He doesn’t want Dudley to see Hedwig with a broken wing and get any ideas of his own.

  
“You,” His uncle addresses him as he sits down at the table, “Are going to do housework today. We’ve had enough of your _laziness_. Your aunt has set up a list that’s on the fridge, and we expect you to get it all done by this evening.” His cousin already has a look of smug satisfaction on his face, and it’s obvious that they’ve all collaborated together on this project.

  
Without even consulting the list, Harry knows that it’ll be impossibly long. His relatives are undoubtedly sadistic, and will definitely reap enjoyment at the sight of him struggling to finish even half of the tasks on time. He’s also sure that there’ll be consequences for not getting all of his chores done. Dudley continues to smirk maddeningly at him from across the table, chewing viciously on some bacon.

  
“Fine,” Harry says, wishing that he could at least write a letter to Sirius begging to get him out of here first. He won’t be able to deliver any letters until someone else sends their own owl first, and even that he doesn’t foresee that happening for a couple of days at least. As much as he loves the wizarding world, post by owl is painfully slow and inconvenient.

  
He picks at his scrambled eggs and puts a bit in his mouth every couple of minutes, ignoring his aunt and uncle’s idle conversation and trying to figure out how he’s going to make it out of this with his sanity intact.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm trying to make this work a lot longer, a lot lighter, and hopefully make each chapter long and worthwhile. hopefully, i succeed
> 
> p.s. sorry about the fucked up spacing

After breakfast, Harry looks at the list.

It’s indeed staggeringly long, including but not limited to washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, organizing the backyard shed, and getting rid of the hornets’ nest out back. It’s extensive, even for his relatives, who’ve always been harsh but at the very least realistic. This list offers no possibility of even being completed, let alone finished perfectly. Clinging onto a shred of self-preservation, he immediately gets to work on the first task, scrubbing the hardened grease and fat from each breakfast dish and cautiously organizing them in the dishwasher. 

Harry can feel his uncle’s eyes on him, beady as a vulture’s, and tries to make sure that there’s no spaciousness between the dishes. He crams the delicate glassware as close together as possible without piling them on top of each other, meticulous as though he were performing heart surgery.

Realistically, he knows that this day can’t possibly end well for him. His aunt and uncle seem out for blood, watching intently for the slightest mistake, and there’s no way that he’s going to meet their standards even halfway. He also finds that he doesn’t care. At least this will keep his mind off of the nightmares and how much he misses Dean, anyways. He’s tired of thinking the same repetitive thoughts.

The dishwasher, fortunately, passes inspection. His aunt has a nasty look on her face as she squats down and peers in between the rows of dishes, nodding slowly when she’s satisfied enough. His uncle nastily spits something out about him being good for at least this one thing, before ordering him to the backyard to start on the lawn.

Within minutes, it quickly becomes apparent that Harry’s lack of sleep has taken a toll on his body. He fumbles with the can of petrol and spills some of the foul liquid over his trainers. Once he starts cutting the grass, he’s unable to walk in a straight line. It results in slip ups that he can’t afford to make, missed patches of slightly longer grass that he has to go back over. Before he went off to Hogwarts, he had this chore mastered to an art, but either he’s too uncoordinated to revert to his old degrees of perfection or he’s lost the skill altogether.

As he cuts the grass, he thinks of Dean again, and that probably is the reason behind some of his more unfortunate errors. So far this summer, his boyfriend has been his only mental escape from reality. Harry’s gone over every moment that they spent together this last term and done his best to relive each one. He’s fantasized upwards of a dozen or so times how their reunion might go. It’s absolutely maddening, to know that Dean’s less than an hour away by drive but still out of reach.

Many times, Harry’s contemplated running away, or simply using magic and having someone from the Ministry come rescue him from his living conditions. Certainly, they would forget his lapse and at least be concerned with his relatives’ animosity towards him.

 _Why don’t you use magic, Harry_? _Why don’t you tell someone what’s going on_?

The answer is simple enough, and it’s shame. There’s a reason he never told Hermione and Ron of his circumstances at home, during their first three years at Hogwarts. It was difficult enough trying to explain away the poor excuses of Christmas presents he received, with his friends’ naïve confusion. He can’t even imagine trying to tell them that his uncle likes to demean him and hit him, can’t imagine trying to tell them that he spent the first eleven years of his life stashed away in a cupboard underneath the stairs. Every year in Muggle school had always brought forward at least one suspicious or worried authoritative figure. He knows how to avoid investigation better than he knows how to do any of his chores, and he can’t tell if it’s because of shame or his aunt and uncle’s instructions that causes him to evade questioning so well.

 There’s a particular sense of dread and helplessness that Harry encounters whenever he sees an incoming fist, or his uncle’s red face, or hears promises of hurt. The last thing he wants to do is have anyone associate that weakness with him. 

Dean was close to uncovering his weakness last year, when Harry had flinched at the intensity of his sudden anger. And, deep down, he knows that there is next to no possibility of all of the bruises healing by the time someone comes to take him from here. He knows that his uncle will undoubtedly add more before they all have a chance to disappear. There’s a huge chance of someone discovering, and he can’t figure out how he feels about this.

A year ago, he was angry and indignant at his mistreatment, convincing himself that he didn’t deserve what was happening. He wrote his friends with enough urgency in his letters that eventually the Weasleys came to get him for the World Cup. Things are different now, and Harry feels so broken and worn down that a bit of roughening up by his uncle is the very least of his concerns.

He wheels the lawnmower into the shed and proceeds to dust and vacuum the house. His aunt has always been extremely particular about cleanliness, and so luckily Harry doesn’t have to spend too much time on this task. He traipses in, armed with a vacuum and a duster, and only spends just under an hour going from room to room and making sure that each surface is spotless.

The true problem comes when he’s forced to encounter the hornets’ nest on the other side of the shed out back. His coordination is already shit, and worsening the more he delays. Despite the inevitable nightmares that will surely visit him when he next sleeps, all Harry can think about is his bed waiting upstairs.

He grips a can of pesticide tightly in one hand, making sure the cap is off and the nozzle is angled away from him before he begins contemplating his method of attack. The nasty insects are buzzing like mad, swooping in and out of the nest with no real goal in mind. Harry can see their individual stingers as they fly around. 

It's obviously entertaining for his relatives to watch. When he glances back, he can see all three of them observing from the window, not even trying to keep up a casual pretense of watching the telly. Their faces are all but pressed up against the shiny glass. His uncle looks exceptionally pleased, eyes roaming from the nest to Harry and back again.

Harry takes a deep breath, and sprays at the nest.

Immediately, a majority of the wasps become affected. Six fall to the ground, their wings twitching helplessly. But many of them aren’t injured enough by the spray, and only become angered. Harry keeps his hand pressed on the nozzle, waving his arm in every possible direction, but it isn’t enough of a defense. Two of the nasty insects manage to maneuver their way around the spray, and sting him on his right forearm. He hisses and drops the can, running a distance away to safety before inspecting the wounds.

Within moments of him prodding at it, the skin around the stingers is swelling, and the whole area feels sore and sharp. He squeezes out the stingers before he can talk himself out of it, pus dribbling out of the open wound.

The remaining hornets are enraged, swooping and buzzing around with a new intensity at their fallen comrades. The can of spray is discarded amongst the carcasses, and Harry feels absolutely zero desire to go and try to retrieve it. He goes inside to find bandages for his arm.

“You’re not finished out there, boy,” Uncle Vernon storms up to him almost right away, as he gingerly applies the bandages to his stings and wraps them around his arm. He’s not very well versed in either medical magic or Muggle medical knowledge, and has no clue if he should be doing anything else to alleviate the effects of the sting. There’s no use asking for assistance, either. He doubts that his aunt would help him if his foot was cut off. 

“I don’t care,” Harry retorts, showing more emotion than he has all summer. He’s angry. Why should he put himself at the risk of the hornets, when his aunt and uncle would know more about getting rid of insects? He’s been set up for failure right from the start, and maybe it’s reckless, but he would much rather get a beating now than after he gets stung by a couple more wasps, “I’m not going back out there. I don’t know how to get rid of them.”

His uncle’s eyes widen, and he slaps Harry before his aunt or cousin can react as well, “You _will_ do as you’re told,” He growls, obviously trying to recover from the blow to his authority, “Or so help me, I’ll make you regret the day you were born.”

“It’s a bit too late for that,” Something must be possessing Harry, and forcing these words out of his mouth, because there’s no way he just voluntarily said that. Unfortunately, his uncle hears, and quickly any thought of hornets is long forgotten.

A beefy hand clasps his neck. The grip is painfully tight, and he can barely breathe through it. For a brief moment, he entertains the thought that maybe his uncle’s finally snapped and is truly trying to kill him, before dismissing it. This would be a horrible way to kill a nephew discreetly, even if you have two alibis who would go to the grave for you.

He gasps, chokes out a horrible rasping noise as his uncle draws up the other hand and punches him viciously in the stomach.

The blow is punishing, and the trailing pain even more so. Almost immediately, Harry coughs, and within a few seconds of coughing with the little air he’s allowed blood manages to dribble down his lips.

His aunt’s eyes widen almost comically. Maybe she’s thinking of the trip that they may have to take to the hospital, the lies they may have to fabricate, or maybe she’s thinking of the blood stains that are now dripping on her immaculate white carpet. He can’t decide which is more depressing. 

“Vernon,” His aunt whispers, her voice shaking, “Vernon.” She grabs at her husband’s shirt with a bony hand. Dudley doesn’t look as shaken, just uneasy, his eyes darting from the blood to his father’s purpling face.

Mercifully, his uncle releases him, and Harry coughs even harder, more blood spewing onto the carpet. He can hear his aunt shriek in dismay.  

“Consider that a lesson, for disobeying me,” Uncle Vernon fumes from somewhere above him, “You’re to go to your room this instant, and don’t you dare think about coming out.”

Harry stays keeled over until his uncle pushes him. As he makes his way upstairs, he can already see his aunt frantically working over the carpet with cleaning supplies. It’s a lost cause, he knows. There’s too much red being absorbed, for the shade to go back to the crisp white it once was. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is short, so i'll add another one too to compensate for that and the fact that I haven't posted in a bit

Harry lies in his bed for however long. Now him and Hedwig are _both_ sporting injuries of their own. His neck feels tender and his stomach is incredibly sore, twinging with pain whenever he moves. It quickly becomes apparent that it’s in his best interest to stay still. He listens to Hedwig’s injured coos for what feels like hours, staring at the setting sun outside of his window.

A few minutes ago, his uncle and aunt had said through his door that they were heading to a lawn competition of some sort in the city. They’d listed threats that would surely be carried out if he dared leave his room, but didn’t unlock his door or come inside to look at him. Uncle Vernon always seemed particularly disgusted with him after a beating, even before he went to Hogwarts. Somehow, seeing the result of his own rage and hatred was not as satisfying as doing the damage. Harry prefers to think that it’s due to a sliver of humanity still residing inside of him, but knows that more likely than not it’s probably just that he’s repulsed by his nephew’s inability to resist the hurts raining down on him.

Harry ponders for a bit, rather masochistically, what it would be like if he told his relatives about his sexuality. There would be no favorable outcome, for sure, but it’s also a mystery to him whether homosexuals are worse than wizards in Vernon Dursley’s book. Undoubtedly, his uncle’s sickened by both, and this new information would most likely put Harry in more danger of punishment. Despite this, he’s half tempted to fuck it all and just tell his relatives about every sinful, abnormal thing he’s ever done. Hopefully, he thinks bitterly, he would be killed, and not have to suffer this mistreatment any longer. And while this is unquestionably the darkest thought he’s had in a good few weeks, Harry finds that he doesn’t want to take it back.

 _Kill me_ , he chants inside his head, aware of the stern looks Hedwig would give him if he said it out loud, _kill me and stuff my body in the attic. Leave it in the shed out back for insects to feed on. Better yet, kill me and go to jail so you can rot for the things you’ve done to me. Just please, make it quick_.

He _could_ just cut himself open or put his wand to his temple and fire off the Killing Curse, but upon thinking over his options he finds that he’s not _that_ deeply invested.

 _I just want to see Dean_ , he thinks miserably, curling in on himself before he can remember the pain it’ll bring. He groans through his teeth for a couple of seconds, relaxing as the discomfort gradually ebbs away into just a pulsing ache, _I want him to hold me, and kiss my head, and tell me that everything will be all right_.

Before Harry can truly settle down to wallow in his own self-pity, he hears a loud _bang_ echo from downstairs, and immediately identifies it as the result of a Blasting Hex.

He tries to unfurl into a sitting position, but his exhaustion and injuries aren’t having it in the slightest. Hopefully, this isn’t a dangerous person coming to seek revenge for Voldemort, but instead wizards who can help him. It’s the most he can wish for, right now.

“Harry?” He hears Lupin shouting, and _thank god_. Thank god someone he trusts has come to bring him out of this mess. Hopefully the professor can help fix Hedwig’s wing, and hopefully he won’t notice the sleep that Harry’s missed out on in these last few weeks.

“’M in here,” He answers, as loud as he can. His throat hurts still, and his voice huffs out as a rather unfortunate wheeze. Hopefully that’s reparable damage he hears there.

Someone jiggles his doorknob in response to the noise, only to assumedly discover that it’s been locked. He can hear a growl, then a low pronunciation of _Alohomora_ , before his door swings open.

Professor Lupin, a young female witch, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Professor Moody are standing in the frame his doorway.

He learned at the end of the school year that the Alastor Moody that attacked him was a Death Eater in disguise, aiding in the return of Lord Voldemort. After being questioned under a heavy dose of Veritaserum and confessing, the Minister took his word and alerted the magical world of Voldemort’s return. Meanwhile, the young Death Eater was thrown once more into Azkaban.

Harry had been too out of it to focus on the details of the story. What’s important to him is that the Auror in front of him is not a threat to his life. He knew that Lupin wouldn’t have let him near if that was the case, anyways.

The young witch flicks on the light switch by his door, scrunching her eyes. Harry had been relying on sunlight as a way to see, but the sun had set a while ago, and he hadn’t found the strength to get up and turn on the lights on his own yet.

“Merlin, what _happened_?” Lupin cries, his eyes roaming from Harry’s bruised neck to his awkward position to the blood dampening his grey shirt.

“My uncle,” He mutters by way of explanation, closing his eyes to avoid the horrified expression that he’ll no doubt find on the werewolf’s face, “Is there any way for you to take the pain? Please?” He tries not to beg.

“I’m trained in some medical magic,” The witch by the door interrupts, “But only in small injuries, like broken bones or cuts.”

“Not bruising?” He whispers, his voice getting hoarser and hoarser.

“Not really,” She looks troubled.

Figures.

“We’ve come to get you out of here, Potter,” Professor Moody growls, examining the messiness that’s accumulated in Harry’s room from weeks of apathy and neglect, “And it looks like we should’ve done it damn well sooner, too.”

“What matters is that we’re getting him now,” Kingsley Shacklebolt says, his deep voice reverberating around the room. He starts moving Harry’s things to his abandoned suitcase in the corner with magic, while Tonks cleans Hedwig’s cage. Harry sees when she discovers the broken wing. With a soft incantation, she fixes it, her forehead creased in a frown.

“There’s no way we can take him by Apparition,” Professor Moody says to the others as he watches Lupin help Harry into a sitting position. The process is painful, and slow, “I don’t think sudden movement could be very good for him. Tonks can drive.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” The young witch, now identified as Tonks, says jokingly at being made a slave. But she’s nodding in agreement, “You live by Ms. Figg, is that right, Harry? She’s a registered Squib that’s been serving as our lookout for you.”

This news should come as a surprise to him, Harry thinks, but it does not. It makes sense, then, why they came so soon following Vernon’s rage, after weeks of doing nothing. Perhaps Ms. Figg didn’t believe he was in immediate danger before this.

“Yes, she lives down the street,” He recites the correct address to Tonks, who nods again. She’s been petting Hedwig’s feathers for the past couple of minutes, reassuring her, but at these words she makes to exit the room.

“I’ll go ask to borrow her car,” She says, disappearing down the hallway.

Professor Lupin continues to look at him worriedly, “Can you walk, Harry?”

“If it’s just to the car, then yeah,” He responds, grinding his teeth as he puts his hand on his knees, hunching forward. His head’s _killing_ him, and there’s no doubt in his mind that the punch to his stomach caused some sort of damage. He really should tell them about that.

“Molly’s got quite a bit of medical magic up her sleeve, raising seven children of her own,” Professor Moody says gruffly, “She’ll be able to help when we get there, Harry. Just hold on tight.”


	4. Chapter 4

The walk downstairs, and out to the car, is agony. Kingsley leads them with Hedwig’s cage and Harry’s packed suitcase, and Moody trails behind them, quite alert. Professor Lupin helps Harry down the stairs, graciously not commenting on the way he’s trembling. He’ll be damned if he lets himself get carried when he can walk just fine.

Tonks wastes no time in herding them all into the car, locking the Dursley’s front door and turning of all their lights again with magic before peeling out of the driveway. While Harry had noticed she was a bit clumsy walking, she drives smoothly and assuredly, changing lanes and bracing herself against the inevitable onslaught of car horns like a natural.

“My dad’s a Muggle,” She says in response to his curious glance, “Even though I was out of Hogwarts by the time I could get my license, he still thought driving was an important skill to have.”

He nods.

“So Harry,” Professor Moody says on his left. Professor Lupin’s situated on his right, and Kingsley’s in the passenger seat, “We’re going to a headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. Do you know what that is?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Harry says quietly, resolutely ignoring how horrible his voice sounds, “Sirius kind of alluded to it in one of his letters. I’m not quite sure what it does, though.”

“During Voldemort’s last reign, Dumbledore organized the Order of the Phoenix,” Professor Lupin tells him (being very careful not to move, Harry notes), “It’s an organization for the Light wizards who were against Voldemort in his last reign, quite distinct from the Ministry. Dumbledore’s the leader. Your parents were in the Order, and so were many other people. After Voldemort came back a few weeks ago, Dumbledore reorganized the group. It’s important we have a head start against the Dark side in this war.”

“Okay,” Harry says, holding Hedwig’s cage tightly in his lap so it doesn’t jolt around more than necessary. The owl looks sleepy, finally being able to rest without pain.

“Right now, the headquarters are at the main Black family estate,” Lupin continues carefully, “This is where Sirius has been living. The property’s open to anyone who knows of it and knows its purpose. Otherwise, it’s disguised. It’ll be a safe place for you to rest and spend this next part of the summer. The Weasleys and Hermione are also staying there, and it’s where Order meetings are held as well.”

Harry tries to search for a part of him that feels left out, or annoyed, but finds that he can’t. He knows that it wasn’t essential he be there right away at the beginning of summer, not when his legal address is number 4 Privet Drive. He’s just glad he gets to join everyone else, now.

He’s absolutely exhausted by the day’s events, but before he can doze off, the car comes to a stop.

Harry gets inside the Grimmauld Place estate alright enough. His pain has temporarily fleeted, replaced by anxiety at the thought of facing so many people at once and letting them see the state he’s in, at the thought of being holed up with the Weasley family again for a long period of time. He feels exposed and nervous, so much so that his headache and hurting is much less noticeable as he’s aided through the entrance. Shacklebolt sets down his suitcase at the foot of a staircase, and Tonks steps ahead to greet everybody first.

“You’re alright, Harry,” Lupin says bracingly. He must sense some of Harry’s nerves, “Molly’s going to patch you up, and then you can go and rest upstairs. You don’t have to face anything until tomorrow, if you don’t want to.”

The plan sounds like heaven. It hits him all of a sudden that he won’t have to go back to the Dursleys this summer, and the realization makes him want to cry in relief.

A short, redheaded witch makes her way down the entrance hall, gradually coming into the light. It’s Molly Weasley, and her husband and Sirius aren’t far behind her.

“Harry,” She gasps, as his features are thrown into the harsh lighting. He knows that he must look terrible. He hasn’t gotten a decent sleep since summer started, and he’s lost all the weight he’d gained back. His wrists are birdlike again, and his cheekbones are too sharp, “Oh, good heavens.”

“I’m alright,” He lies, to both reassure her and make sure she doesn’t attract any more attention than what’s necessary. His voice does a poor job of aiding him in this endeavor.

“He has some injuries that need to be healed,” Lupin says from just behind him, “And then I think we can all agree that Harry just needs to rest. He’s been through a lot.”

“Of course, healing’s the least I can do,” Mrs. Weasley looks so troubled, so shaken, as she surveys the bruising on his neck and his pained posture, “Is your neck the only place?”

Harry shakes his head, “I have a headache,” He confesses softly, “I don’t think I can sleep while I still have it. And, my stomach.”

Mrs. Weasley fishes out her wand, “I can take away some of the pain,” She promises, “But with the bruising I can’t guarantee anything. There’s Potions that could speed up the healing, but I think we’d need Snape for that.”  

He nods, and listens to her enunciate spells under her breath. Within seconds, the pain’s dramatically lessened in his temples, throat, and stomach.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry tries for a smile, but he knows that he’s failed horribly.

Before anything more can be said, Sirius navigates around Mrs. Weasley and hugs him, taking care to be gentle.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Harry,” He whispers into his ear. It _should_ be uncomfortable, Harry’s had little to no physical contact with Sirius in a while, but he’s drowsy and exhausted and the hug is warm, “I hope you know we would’ve all come straight away to get you out of there if we knew the danger of your situation.”

“I know,” Harry murmurs, closing his eyes, “I know. I’m okay, Sirius, I promise.”

“No, you’re not okay.”

"Harry’s exhausted,” Lupin says quietly to Sirius, interrupting whatever he was going to say next, “I think he just needs to sleep right now.”

Still hugging Sirius, Harry shakes his head.

“I haven’t been able to sleep in weeks, with nightmares,” He admits, feeling Sirius’ arms tighten minutely around him, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll be able to?”

“Not a problem,” Mrs. Weasley says. A glance at her tells him that her light tone is forced. There’s lines on her face that he didn’t notice before, “With so many people in this house, there’s always one person who can’t sleep because they had a bad dream. We have a store of Dreamless Sleep Potion in the kitchen, if you want to follow me.”

He peels himself away from Sirius and lets her lead him down the hall to the kitchen. She rummages in cupboards for a bit, standing on her tiptoes, before finding what she needs. He takes the offered vial of potion from her grasp gratefully.

“Remember, Harry,” She says, staring right at him with alarming clarity. (The whole night’s gone by in a haze, but now it feels like time’s stopped going so fast all of a sudden. The kitchen seems exaggeratedly dark and silent, and Mrs. Weasley seems so real in front of him. Harry feels immensely sad all of a sudden, the weight of everything that's happened hitting him and making him suck in a breath.) He tries not to break eye contact or shuffle his feet, “You’re like family to us. Nothing that happened in this last year has changed that. _Please_ , come to one of us if you still have nightmares or if you’re hurting.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” He mumbles, sleep threatening to take him right then and there.

She smiles, “Of course. Let me show you to your room.”

She leads him up the staircase, with Sirius lugging his things behind them. The door to his and Ron’s room is slightly ajar, with light spilling from the inside. They come in to find Hermione, Ron, the twins, and Ginny all sitting there, discussing something. The twins are lying in the beds, with the others seated on the wooden floor.

Their arrival turns heads, and immediately all eyes zero in on Harry’s bruised neck, on his gaunt figure and obvious lack of sleep. He wants them to stop staring.

“Harry needs to sleep, _now_ ,” Mrs. Weasley directs, causing everybody to scramble up from their relaxed positions, “If any of you have any questions, Lupin can answer them within reason, but please don’t ask Harry anything or wake him up. He’s been through a lot tonight.”

Harry waits for Sirius to set down his things, and for Mrs. Weasley to usher the other children out of the room. Ron’s now sitting on his own bed, staring at him with wide eyes. It feels weird to not have a conversation with him and catch up on everything he’s missed, but he’s so fucking tired.  

“Please don’t ask,” Harry says softly, changing from jeans into pajama bottoms and slipping into a shirt that isn’t stained with his own blood. He can hear Ron gasp at the bruises on his stomach (he’s sure they’re _horrible_ ), but ignores it, collapsing on his own bed and just barely having time to crawl underneath the covers before he falls asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say im so sorry for basically abandoning this fic. this has been the craziest past couple of months for me, ive been in and out of the hospital since march and theyve found abnormalities in my brain that are concerning to say the least. diagnosis still pending. between everything thats been happening and my symptoms, i took a bit of a break from writing. i cant promise im back for good at all, but heres another chapter!

As promised, Harry manages to evade dreams. He sleeps for longer than he has in weeks, never once stirring. When he finally wakes up, he’s drowsy, and the sun coming through the window is ripe. It’s almost surely late morning or early afternoon. He can hear voices drifting from around the house, clatters of kitchen equipment and the dull footsteps of someone venturing downstairs.

Ron’s sitting on the bed opposite him, reading. It’s extremely out of character, even when Harry looks and sees that the book is about Quidditch. He looks like he’s been there for a while, comfortably situated on his pillows with his legs spread awkwardly.

"Harry,” Ron startles when he looks over to see unexpected eye contact, “You’re awake.”

"Yep,” He confirms, voice ragged, pulling the blankets around him and underneath his chin. He’s lethargic in the best way, sleepy as he hasn’t felt in what feels like years. He takes a second to ponder on whether he can just ignore everyone and take a kip but ultimately decides that staying awake is the best option. He can’t be in bed all day.

There’s a few heartbeats of silence, where he regains consciousness enough to take note of the situation and where Ron waits for him to speak.

"What’s going to happen now?” He asks the redhead sitting across from him, not wanting to move.

"We should go and get lunch. Mum and the others want to know what happened,” Ron says cautiously, raising his eyebrows in a way that’s somehow curious and not judgmental. He's adopted the attitude one does when approaching an injured animal, “Dumbledore came in this morning, and he’s in the kitchen. I heard him talk about taking you to St. Mungo’s?"

He seems equally disturbed and curious at the mention of his best mate going to the hospital.

Harry sighs. He knew that this visit would come sooner rather than later, and can't tell if he's relieved or not about it happening now. At the very least, he'll be around resources that could heal his injuries and take away his immediate pain.

“Okay,” He croaks, gingerly dressing in something better suited for lunch with the others and not sleep. Ron doesn’t turn away as he changes, staring with morbid fascination at his bruises like last night. If anything, they must be more vivid in color now. Harry doesn’t want to look at them.

They both trudge downstairs, Ron abandoning his book on his bed. In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley’s furiously banging out a meal suitable enough for her large audience. She smiles when she sees them come in.

"Sit down, both of you,” She says lightly, not taking her eyes off of Harry’s face, “Lunch is almost ready, and then I’ll call the others here.”

Dumbledore’s sitting at the table, examining them both mildly as though they were paintings. Lupin’s seated on that side of the table as well. Harry takes the chair opposite him, letting Ron nab the next one over.

"Harry,” Dumbledore says, manner gentle, “It’s good to see you with us.”

Harry nods, not trusting his own voice. He heard how hoarse and cracked it was upstairs when conversing with Ron, and doesn’t wish to embarrass himself before having a bit of water.

Like magic, Mrs. Weasley hurries over to set glasses down by him and Ron. They’re full of ice water, and as Harry drinks, he can feel the burning in his throat ease.

"We were just discussing some matters regarding you, Harry,” Lupin tells him earnestly, searching his face for a reaction to cling to, “We all think it’s best if you go with Dumbledore to St. Mungo’s, Harry. Preferably today.”

He can feel Ron staring at him, and Mrs. Weasley listening in despite her cooking.

"Alright,” Harry says, circling his finger around the rim of his glass.

Lupin blinks, “Really?”

He startles a bit. Did everyone truly expect him to put up a fight on this one?

"Well, yes,” Harry affirms, a bit slowly, “If you think it’s the best thing for me right now, I’m not going to argue. I agree.”

“I’m very glad that you agree with us, Harry,” Dumbledore injects, “Unfortunately, however, I don’t foresee it being a simple appointment. I hope you understand that, as well.”

He looks from Lupin, who has a careful expression on his face, back to Dumbledore, “Meaning what, Professor?”

"Given the events of this last school year,” The Headmaster explains, “Your mental instability along with the events of Voldemort’s return, and now the mistreatment of your relatives, it’s very likely that your stay at St. Mungo’s will have to account for all that you’ve been through. And that may mean more than a couple of hours. When I spoke with the Head Healer, he was talking about the possibility of you staying a few nights, maybe even more.”

Harry thinks about it for a couple of seconds, unnerved by the eyes on him.

Logically, he knows that he has no chance to argue against this. This was part of his and Madame Pomfrey’s compromise, and Lupin and Dumbledore seem dead set on this plan already.

And, thinking about it even further, Harry doesn’t want to argue. He’s so tired of simple solutions that keep him sane for a short while before he spirals back into bad habits. Dean’s the only thing that works to calm him down and help him focus his thoughts elsewhere, but Harry doesn’t want to have to depend on his boyfriend’s presence in order to function.

He agrees with them, but he wishes that this conversation was taking place somewhere more private. As the others troop in, Lupin seems to think along the same lines.

"We’ll talk about this more after lunch,” He promises Harry in a low voice.

Everyone takes a seat at the large table. Mr. Weasley and Sirius are on the other end, Hermione takes the seat on Harry’s other side, and the twins and Ginny sit in the middle. Tonks is still here, yawning and scrunching up her face unattractively. She’s next to Sirius, and Harry dimly remembers the fact that they’re cousins.

“While this looks absolutely delicious,” Dumbledore says, as Mrs. Weasley sets down platters of food, “I’m afraid, Molly, that I’ve already eaten.”

"Oh, it’s not a problem!” Mrs. Weasley nods her head furiously. The Headmaster gets up, and briefly moves to a room off to the left of the kitchen.

She sets down the food, using wandless magic to effortlessly place the trays in according spots on the table. Everyone reaches and competes for the best portions of food off of the platters. Harry’s suddenly reminded of what it’s like at the Weasley home whenever he went. This wizarding family has an uncanny knack of making every place they inhabit feel like a home. Sirius looks on, overjoyed, at the chatter and noise. Harry watches him laugh and goad the bickering twins, and even tease Tonks a little bit.

Ron nudges him in his side, “Gonna eat, mate?”

Ron’s looking at him, and he swallows. He knows that he looks awful. His shirt, while navy and long sleeved, hangs horribly on him in a way that probably only emphasizes his thinness. His collarbones jut out, and the bruises on his neck and shadows underneath his eyes most likely do not help his appearance at all.

Harry looks like a mess, simply put. Not eating for weeks and not sleeping when he can’t afford to do either of those things result in this. Now that Ron’s paying attention to him, he realizes that Lupin is carefully watching him as well, and so is Mrs. Weasley from the other end. They’re both trying to be subtle, but he senses the unspoken tension in the room. Undoubtedly, Hermione is watching him on his other side.

“Of course,” He murmurs, reaching to the nearest platter to get some food. His wrists look bony and willowy, like they might snap at the slightest pressure.

“Here, let me,” Hermione takes his plate, and reaches across the table for him, knocking away feisty hands. She’s sparing, for which he’s grateful. But it’s still too much food, and he already knows that his stomach will rebel against him.

He thanks her before taking a cautious bite of mashed potatoes. The food is heavy and rich, as it always is with Mrs. Weasley, and he honestly doesn’t know how he’ll get through this meal alive.

Harry eats slowly, nibbling at the shepherd’s pie with painstaking caution. He manages to consume half of the meal, but his appetite is nonexistent and his stomach is stretched so tightly that it’s starting to hurt. He tries to move stuff around with his fork and takes tiny bits of food when he feels daring.  
Lupin’s pale, watching him, and he doesn’t have to look at the others to know that he isn’t passing the test. He’s trying, but he can’t eat anymore, it’s just not possible to ask of him.

“I can’t eat anymore, I’m sorry,” He mumbles to Hermione. She looks upset, but manages a smile.

“Can’t, or don’t want to?” She asks, to make sure.

“I literally can’t. My stomach’s too full,” He says, and the corners of her lips droop a bit.

She looks concerned, “That’s not good, Harry.”

“I know.”

Everyone else is starting to finish their meals, too, polishing their plates and complimenting Mrs. Weasley on her cooking. People have been periodically looking at him while he eats, Ginny and Sirius and the twins, but no one besides Hermione and Ron say a thing about how little he’s consumed. He’s grateful.  
  
After lunch, Dumbledore motions him into the side room off the kitchen while everyone cleans up.

“I think it’s time we go to St. Mungo’s, by boy,” The Headmaster says. It's very anticlimactic, "You don’t need to take any significant luggage. Your things will be provided there at the facility.”

“I’ll just say goodbye, then?” Harry whispers, the hoarseness in his throat returning. He’s starkly aware of his lack of choice in this matter, and if he wasn’t for it he would surely be extremely irritated at the moment.

“Of course, Harry."

He strides towards the front door, while Harry turns around and heads back to the kitchen.

“I’m going with Dumbledore to St. Mungo’s now," He says quietly to Ron and Hermione, who’ve been waiting for his return. Hermione hugs him.

“This will be good for you, Harry,” She tries to reassure him, “I promise. Mrs. Weasley’s already talking about visiting you while you’re there.”

He grimaces at the thought of all of them seeing him, vulnerable and on some sort of bed, and hopes that they’ll all be too busy to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for sticking with me


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry ive been so MIA on here, I mostly write for myself now just to practice and for my own enjoyment. i'm so much of a perfectionist that i have to edit everything for hours before even deem it to be okay to post, and by then it's not even my own writing anymore. But this was kind of bugging me that I had a couple chapters still, so!

St. Mungo’s is an enormous facility, he can tell just from walking in through the discreet city entrance. The halls are endless and natural sunlight is pouring from giant ceiling panels miles up, lighting up giant circles of the entrance lobby and waiting areas. Harry’s so tired and overwhelmed, nurses transfer them from office to office to fill out introductory registration and paperwork. They’re then taken in the back, to the staff lifts and not the guest ones. There are both long term and short term residents alike up where they’re going, the Healer explains to them as the doors shut. 

 

The fifth floor appears to be organized into various sections. There’s parts dedicated solely to long term patients, patients with mental disorders, patients with health problems, patients that need to be diagnosed, and so forth. Each quarantined area is helpfully colored, with a badge needed to access each barrier from section to section. It means almost no chance of chaos or mistakes, with the security system they uphold.

 

“Mr. Potter,” another Healer comes up, one with a clear authority that the first guide didn’t have. His uniform holds more badges and instruments, with a darker hue, “If you’re ready, I’m here to take you to a more private room so we can begin your introduction to our residence program.”

 

This is where his headmaster deems the situation too intimate to walk forth with him, “I’ll leave you to it, Harry,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, mind clear with the fact that he has the freedom to walk out, “Undoubtedly, you will find yourself with a fleet of visitors in the coming days.” 

 

“Thank you, sir,” Harry says quietly, “For everything.” He does it mostly to be polite. All that was done for him was being sent off to a facility and guided there to make sure he couldn’t run away. Maybe he’s a little  _ too  _ envious of how easily the man is able to go back to the elevators, go back to his purposeful career at Hogwarts without a hitch in breathing. 

 

He follows the Healer down a long hallway, the doors in various stage of open as they go. He tries not to be invasive, but looking into the rooms reveals too much for him to ignore. People are sleeping, watching TV, talking with assumed visitors or reading a book. The walls and ceiling are scrubbed to perfection, spells and charms reaching where janitors couldn’t in Muggle buildings.

 

He’s guided to a small changing room off on the side, unceremonious in size, and told to change, his clothes stripped and searched before he slips into a uniform of its own, the label of a confined patient.

 

The Healer says politely, “If you’ll follow me right this way please.”

 

As they walk, he continues to talk in a low voice. The atmosphere is rather light, with Healers and patients and visitors all milling around, but a low voice seems to be a part of the man’s personality, “From what we understand through Madame Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore, your case is extremely severe and it has been for the better part of a year. But I want to hear about it all from you, if you’re alright with telling us. It’ll be easier to help you if we know what we’re working with, and you don’t have a medical chart.” 

 

Suddenly, the Healer turns into a room off on the right towards the end of the extensive hallway down a smaller one, with extensive lounging quarters beyond that. The room they go into now, however, is more private. A window that takes up half the wall. It looks out over the London cityscape, and Harry can see people walk on the sidewalk, small as ants, as he’s drawn to the glass like a moth. 

 

“This is going to be your room for the duration of your stay. We hope that you find this to be comfortable quarters. It’s pretty distant from the community rooms and elevators, about as discreet of an accommodation as what could be provided for your circumstances. We’ll be able to do your examinations in here, as well as a majority of your treatment depending on the degree of privacy you desire. Can I talk you through your treatment and what we generally plan on doing for you?”

 

“Of course,” Harry tentatively takes a seat on the bed at the gesticulation of the Healer. The bed is fairly large, and soft. This, along with the solid wooden door, probably means he’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep. He appreciates what they have done for him so far, so much, and he doesn’t know how to quite put it into words. He didn’t think that his reputation would provide so much for him in a hospital setting, where everyone seems to be treated equally. Maybe he really  _ is  _ that fragile, and the luxuries he’s being given are for another reason. 

 

“What we plan on doing, Mr. Potter,” The Healer takes a seat in one of the armchairs by the window, his kind face illuminated by grey afternoon light, “Is addressing all of the problems you’ve been facing, that have gone unnoticed or have undergone quick fixes. From what it sounds like, you weren’t ever given the opportunity to completely seek help. Gathering what I can from the circumstances you were in, it seems unfortunate but understandable.

 

“We’re hoping to help you to a certain degree,” He tilts his head, looking straight into his soul with those magnified eyes, “While our administration was told that we could ultimately decide on the extent of your stay, we were also advised to only keep you for a week or so at most. You are very loved, and a convincing case was put forward that you have an extensive and helpful support system to come home to after this. 

There’s only so much that we can do in that allotted time, but my team and I will be putting our best efforts into it. It all depends on how much  _ you  _ want to get better, and what you want to invest into your health.”

 

Harry nods, trying not to sway on the bed with how lightheaded he feels. His arms are so vulnerable and exposed, sliced up skin and brittle bones on display for everybody to see. There’s always been an armor of wizard robes or long sleeves, and it just feels strange to not rely on that anymore. He can’t hide from the penetrating gazes he’s getting. 

 

“Because there are multiple health issues that need to be addressed, we have a day-by-day plan set up for you depending on levels of priority,” The Healer’s saying now, watching him inspect his own arms, “Today I just want to put you through some examinations to see what we’re dealing with, and get you on treatment right away if possible. Potions for weight gaining, definitely, mood stabilizers no doubt with what you’ve been through, and a dreamless sleep for tonight before we can address the issues of your nightmares. After that, I need to see the wounds that I’m told your uncle inflicted on you, if that’s alright. I need to make sure that there’s no serious damage, and then treat it.” 

 

“You can do that?” Harry asks timidly, “Mrs. Weasley couldn’t.”

 

“Yes,” For the first time, Harry notices that the Healer’s name is Finley, “Fortunately, I’m experienced in medical magic. I have all the potions that I may need at the ready. We have an extensive team of people that have been working on your case ever since Professor Dumbledore reached out to us last night.”

 

“Thank you,” He doesn’t know how to articulate the gratitude and surprise inside of him. 

 

“Given the severity of your case, we had to start planning your treatment and accomodations immediately. We have a library down the hall past the visiting quarters, a game and community center that you only need to ask to go to. Most of our patients here find it difficult to adjust to new surroundings right away, and overwhelming you immediately won’t do,” Healer Finley is tentatively smiling, trying to gauge his mood, but Harry knows it must be hard. He’s so numb, “Now, is it alright if I bring my team in here to begin your examinations?”

 

The tests are brief, and painless. Four Healers and two in training come into the room. The main Healer does most of the work while everyone else watches, inciting an incantation, and letting other people try if he wants to make a learning lesson. They’re all treating him incredibly gently, as though he’s a survivor of trauma. In a way, he supposes, the circumstances in place are a little similar. 

The results of the spells, which must tell them something diagnostic, are written down immediately by the observers. He doesn’t understand what the spells are telling them and can’t see the effects, only watches and tries not to flinch when they point their wands at him. 

 

“You’ve suffered some internal bleeding as a result of the blow to your stomach. Your appendix is swollen, dangerously susceptible to bursting, and you have arrhythmia and anemia due to malnutrition and dehydration,” Healer Finley says, to Harry and his team in equal measure, every word being captured by the dedicated note-takers. He smiles gently at Harry’s alarm, “This is to be expected, and we have the tools to treat all of this. You have endured extended starvation, abuse, and severely stressful environments. I would be extremely surprised if nothing was wrong with you at all. But. Because of your condition, we need to prioritize treating this first before continuing.” 

 

Harry’s instructed to lie down. The assistants and Healers move around in an organized flurry for a couple of minutes, grabbing potions and a heated blanket and pillow for him so he’s comfortable, moving the bed at a one thirty degree angle. During this time, he tries to process what the head Healer just said, because it sounds like he’s going to be in here for a  _ while _ . 

 

They tell him to relax and have him drink six different pungent potions, before collectively performing a variety of spells on him together. This proves to be the worst part of the entire procedure. He can  _ feel  _ them working on him, the effects makes him extremely nauseous, and he has to down another sickly sweet potion for that so that they don’t all come back up. 

 

There’s excruciatingly long minutes of internal hyperventilating and trying to avoid throwing up or a panic attack or both. Harry’s rigidly tense on the bed for almost ten minutes of spellwork, with determined Healers swarming around him from every angle, and now his head throbs with anxiety and lack of oxygen. He keeps forgetting how to breathe. What if someone messes up, and he loses his nose, or starts vomiting blood? His teeth are grinding together like a mortar and pestle. 

 

Healer Finley asks one of the observers to grab a weight gaining potion, a mood stabilizing potion, and a dreamless sleep potion next. Harry feels sick just at the sight of them being brought to him. All of these liquids mixing inside of him, surely won’t one of them react? But Hermione’s told him a thousand times that these Healers take every single potion into account, decide what spells and potions to use based on the effects of each, have all received painfully extensive education so they wouldn’t accidentally turn their patient into a magical experiment. If this is true, he can’t even imagine the kind of specialized training they would have to undergo after Hogwarts in order to actually be able to work on live patients without killing them. 

 

“Tomorrow we’ll focus on the aspects of your nightmares,” Harry’s told as he ingests each of the mixtures, consuming them quickly to avoid the nasty accompanying tastes. The weight of them settles sickeningly in his stomach with the others, “As sleep is affecting your mental and physical health greatly, I want to be able to help you in that area of focus first before moving onto anything else. Sleep is restorative, and important in recovery. I understand your previous circumstances deprived you of rest, and we’ll make no progress if you can’t concentrate tomorrow.” 

 

Harry nods quietly, waiting as the rest of the staff file out to continue their rounds before responding. 

 

“How much can you help me in a week? Realistically.” 

 

Dudley has ADHD. It was one of the reasons why his grades were always so catastrophic, one of the reasons Aunt Petunia just fell apart every time reports from his school came back. She was unfailingly on the phone at the end of every term, arguing about the challenges of his disability, that they didn’t give him enough credit for trying his best, none of his teachers did, and Harry knew for a fact that Dudley had probably never laid a finger on his homework assignments once. He took Harry’s homework out of his room every morning to copy off of instead.  

 

But he’d read the prescription bottles for his Adderall, had known from the labels that the medicine took weeks and weeks to go into effect, took a bit of time to get out of his system even once he’d stopped taking it. Just one skipped day didn’t make a difference because there was so much of the chemical residue still left inside. Going on and off of medications was a process, not a short solution. 

 

Healer Finley sat down on the armchair again. The door had been closed once more, the afternoon sun had darkened into evening, and they were alone. Someone had, somewhere along the way, turned on his room light, and even though Harry knew they were invisible to the outside world, he still felt vulnerable and exposed. It was inky black outside, and the only glow was coming from this room. 

 

“I know that you were raised in the Muggle world. If you had ever broken your arm there, or gotten in a car accident, recovery time would’ve looked very, very different. Your wounds would be in casts, whereas here we can fix that with an  _ Episkey _ ,” Harry knew this was elementary wizard stuff, but he couldn’t help it, he’d either never listened to this or had never been taught this before and so he listened with serious consideration all the same, “It’s much the same for us with mental health, we have spells that can immediately send a rush of serotonin to the brain, to make the patient happy, and in the past there have been controversies in experiments with potions that had such a strong dosage of dopamine and oxytocin, that it made an unbearably suffocating love potion. The victims could think of nothing else. 

 

“The brain is so incredibly complex, that every new breakthrough in treating mental health is handled cautiously and as ethically as possible. We don’t want to give people the power to switch their personalities with the flick of a wrist, although it would really never be that simple. But instead of my long, rambling response, Harry, the short answer to your question is that, yes, with what we know about magic and mental health as well as physical, we can help you a lot in your stay. It’s just a matter of doing it  _ safely _ , and for your wellbeing, maintaining as much of yourself as possible in the process.” 

 

The Healer has more patients to attend to, a whole schedule that he had been putting off in order to accomodate and guide and help introduce Harry to his room. There had been no need for him to go through these extensive explanations with everything he did, and yet here he was trying to reassure him even while he was supposed to have moved on to other patients. Harry makes sure to thank him profusely for it, before the Healer takes his leave with profound silence in his absence. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if there's any spelling errors or problem with the tenses! i don't have a beta, just me

His luggage has been unpacked into the dresser by his bed, and Hedwig blinks at him from her cage. He had asked to bring her, practically begged so that he could still stay in touch with the outside world. Because it was a common request by other patients here to bring their animal companions, she was permitted through the wards so long as she wasn’t violent or a danger. 

 

He goes about making the room his, albeit slowly and shuffling, folding his clothes in their drawers and turning on the radio on his nightstand to have some source of white noise. This little room at the end of the hallway is  _ his _ , after all, for the next couple of days at the very least, he better get adjusted. It’s too cold, he turns the thermostat up and finds a blanket in a cupboard that he wraps himself in to surround himself in his weak body heat. 

 

He decides to write a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley then, because it seems important that he thanks them for their assistance and their understanding. Thanking is all he’s done since they found him, it’s the only words he can seem to say, but he just can’t believe people care this much to help.  _ He  _ was the one who actively sabotaged himself. Despite the fact that Hedwig’s at his disposal, Harry also knows that Mrs. Weasley’s probably worrying her head off right now, wondering if sending him away like this was the right decision when he showed up beaten up on their doorstep. A letter’s a good idea. 

 

_ Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, _

 

_ Thank you so much for your hospitality last night and this morning. I have greatly appreciated you and Sirius taking me in despite my absences this last year. I know that it can’t have been easy for you. _

 

_ I’m now in St. Mungo’s, as promised, and it seems I will be here for about a week, possibly longer. They are finally giving me the help I need, thanks to the requests of you and Dumbledore, as well as Madame Pomfrey. I want to thank you for that, also. I don’t know what’s in store for me here, but I’m ready to try anything in order to finally get better. _

 

_ The team of Healers are very kind, and my room is in a private area of the vicinity. I have faith that I won’t be disturbed or in any immediate danger here, not with the amount of wards that exist all over the place.  _

 

_ I will see you all soon, and I want to emphasize that you are by no means obligated to visit me. I understand that there is a lot needed to be done at Grimmauld Place, and the circumstances that brought me here are at nobody’s fault. _

 

_ Thank you for everything, _

 

_ Harry _

 

There. He reads over the letter again, making sure that it both reassures Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and also makes them feel less inclined to come visit him. It’s so human but he feels so vulnerable and  _ exposed _ , this is a transitional period in his life and as selfish as it is he doesn’t want to be seen during recovery.

 

He writes to Sirius next. The letters that he has sent to his godfather so far have been brief at best, and curt at worst, only filling him in on the bare necessities if any at all. He deserves more, especially after the worry he showed last night and this morning. He had been surprised by the intensity of his godfather’s hugs and gazes, his raw emotions out on display for everyone to see. Who knew someone still cared that much, when his own flesh and blood couldn’t even seem to live peacefully knowing he existed. 

 

_ Sirius, _

 

_ I want to thank you for the guidance you have given me this summer, and the help that you offered to me over the course of this last year at school. While I did not take it at the time, the implications are greatly appreciated. I know that it can’t have been easy to maintain faith in me while hearing indirectly about my decisions, but I’m thankful that you did. _

 

_ How is everyone at Grimmauld Place? The atmosphere was extraordinarily tense while I was there. While I realize it was probably due to my uncomfortable presence, I hope that it’s still not the same way when I return. _

 

_ I know that you probably want to know how I feel about all that’s happened in the last couple of days. I could see the questions in your eyes, as well as everybody else’s, when I arrived at your estate. I believe the reason that the question wasn’t asked was my obviously unstable state of mind. _

 

_ Regarding my uncle’s treatment of me, all I can say is that I expected it. It wasn’t atypical behavior on his part. That is all I’m comfortable saying.  _

 

_ As for St. Mungo’s, I knew this visit was well overdue. Madame Pomfrey wanted to send me right away at the end of this last school term, but I merely postponed the offer. While I was reluctant to come here, I’m not in denial or angry. I hope you know that. _

 

_ It’s very quiet here, and calming. Then again, I’ve only been here for about an hour or so. However, my room is private, and the team of Healers working on me are all kind people. They have helped my injuries and outlined a course of action that will be followed for my stay here. I’m relieved to be surrounded by people who have my best interests at heart, and who are actively working to help me heal. _

 

_ I’m not resentful for being brought here(!!).  _

 

_ With love, _

 

_ Harry _

 

The letter is quite possibly sappier than he intended it to be, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Sirius has been left in the dark for far too long, no doubt worrying his head off the entire time spent in oblivion from the display of behavior he showed towards Harry in the last day. He deserved to have at least this small comfort, if he truly was in so much anxiety. 

 

Lastly, he writes to Dean, and he lets the quill write from his hand unrestrained. There are no need for barriers, or mere implications, when he has the option to write out how he truly feels, to a person he trusts completely.

 

_ Dean, _

 

_ A lot has happened in the last few days. I know you’re probably wondering why I haven’t stuck to writing regularly. _

 

_ My uncle became very angry at me, on Saturday. He hurt me, ‘abused’ me is the term everyone keeps using, but I don’t see it as abuse even though I should. I know that I promised to talk about the reason behind me flinching at you, when we were in the lavatories that one time. I never got around to it, because so much was happening, and I hope you can forgive me for that. My uncle’s attitude towards me is a topic too large and deep for me to expand on at the time, and then other events overshadowed it afterwards. _

 

_ Anyways. _

 

_ Professor Lupin and other Aurors from the Ministry came and took me out of my aunt and uncle’s house. They brought me to my godfather’s house, the one I told you about this semester. _

 

_ Being there made me realize how much I’ve gone backwards these last few weeks. I know you’ll be upset at my lack of progress when we next see each other, and I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a discouragement to you, I’m really trying.  _

 

_ Nightmares have plagued my sleep these last couple of weeks and made it almost impossible to get any rest. Additionally, I lost weight. A lot of weight. I know you won’t be excited to see that either. _

 

_ I only stayed at my godfather’s for one night and then for lunch, but it was horribly uncomfortable. I don’t think I can describe the tension. Everyone there tried to make me eat when I couldn’t anymore. It was unbearable, and almost a relief when Dumbledore took me to St. Mungo’s shortly after. _

 

_ That is where I am now. I’m finally seeking proper treatment, and getting the help that I know I really do need. I’m so tired of fighting and hurting all the time, I’m also tired of being stuck in my head like this, and I’m tired of finding quick solutions. I think they’re keeping me here for a week, but it’s very likely I will be here for longer as well. _

 

_ This is the reason behind my letter. I wanted to ask you to come visit me here. I don’t know how you’ll feel about visiting me in St. Mungo’s, and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to. But I’m allowed to have visitors, and I don’t have a roommate. I’ve missed you so much I can barely breathe, and support in this time would mean so much. But I understand if you don’t want to come. _

 

_ Love, love, love, _

 

_ Harry _

 

He ties the three letters to Hedwig, watching her test the weight to make sure it isn’t too much for her to carry.

 

“Thanks, girl,” He says softly. Nothing can possibly express the gratitude her feels towards her, being the connection between him in confinement and the outside world. Night’s sunken into itself while he was writing the letters out, the sky is slowly turning deeper colors as he watches, “Please send Dean’s letter to him first, and then Sirius and the Weasleys next. They’re all close by, so hopefully it’s not too bad of a trip.” 

 

As she flies out to greet the grey concrete, Harry sits on the window bench and watches the street below St. Mungo’s bustle with activity. The buildings surround him, like a maze, and he can only stare in wonder until nightfall consumes him completely and he finds himself to be lethargic. The radio plays steadily on in the background, but he’s not well versed in wizard pop culture, doesn’t understand the references in the music like he should. Maybe if Ron were here. 

 

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself as he sits and his eyes adjust to the dark. One of the silver linings of the day so far is that they haven’t made him eat yet. That he’s finally out of his uncle’s line of sight and he can’t get hit anymore for stupid reasons that are beyond his control. He’s glad that he’s finally somewhere safe, away from the prying eyes of people he never trusted or lost trust in along the way. Even if the safety is bittersweet, because now he has to actually  _ eat _ , and get better, and do a lot of things that scare the shit out of him. They’re not only protecting him from the outside world, but from himself. People are perpetually supervising him, checking in periodically even though he remains in his same perch by the window. 

 

Eventually the dreamless sleep potion starts working its magic, he’s so tired that once he feels the effects kick in he stumbles into his bed, and he just barely manages to get his head settled comfortably on the pillow before his thoughts come to a screeching halt.  

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! im still having a lot of trouble with grammar and tenses when writing so i would appreciate any comments helping me out!!


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